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Published: April 9th 2007
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You may have noticed that everytime I write 'Buduburam' I spell it differently! I did this because every signpost I see around the camp has a different version of it. I'm hoping that the way I'm spelling it now is correct!
Spelling correction out of the way, I've decided to write a little more about the actual camp rather than simply a day by day journal of where I've been. Buduburam refugee camp is a pretty astonishing place, not least because of the conditions and poverty there, but also because of the people. After a week here, I feel that it would be a disservice to the refugees to simply write off Buduburam as 'a sad tragic place' and return home feeling sorry for them. Yes, the stories of those here are extremely sad, and at times seeing how they live is very hard. But underneath all of that, there is a real courage and determination here. I've become very fond of the Liberians, and already feel quite at home as I walk through the camp. They are friendly and welcoming, cheeky and extremely adept at pushing their luck. And above all, they are spirited. I'll tell you more
about the refugees that stick in my mind most at this point. Of course I'm expecting to meet more people and will tell you more as I do!
Fanta is a 12 year old girl who has the amazing knack of appearing at any place in camp at exactly the same time you do. She was the first person here I really noticed. largely because as the minibus door opened on that first Saturday she was by far the loudest and ballsiest of the children who greeted us.
I admire Fanta. I heard through another IV that her sister is sick, and so her mother has taken her away for treatment. Apparently they have been gone for a few weeks already and do not know when they will be back. This means that Fanta is left to be head of house and look after her younger siblings. At 12, she is simultaneously running a candy business (she makes and sells sweets made of condensed milk, each and every day, come rain or shine), and a hair braiding business. Debbie fell victim to Fanta's entrepeneurial skills and persuasive powers, and found herself surrounded by a group of
ten children (led, of course, by Fanta) each with a strand of her hair, knotting, pulling and plaiting. At the end of her ordeal, she looked like a rugrat, whilst Fanta stood by looking very proud. I was left giggling and taking photos of Debbie, whilst avoiding the hairbrush Fanta and her sister Judy kept waving in my direction (braids? In this mop? You must be kidding!) But mainly, I was very impressed by this plucky girl. She has probably the most contact with the IVs, and yet in my experience, is the one of the only ones who has never asked for handouts. For that reason, I am thinking of leaving her some money for supplies when I go.
Another reason I like Fanta is because she's cheeky. As I walked ahead of her one day, she called my name. I turned around to find her pointing at my bum, grinning and loudly announcing to all and sundry that "CAT!! HAHA!! SHE HAS AN AFRICAN SHAPE MAN!!" I took this as a compliment. After all, a large bottom is much more comfortable to sit on, and gets me through many a tro-tro ride.
Migratius is a toddler aged about two or three. She has cute short afro hair, tied up in bunches, and wide sparkling brown eyes. She wears sweet little dresses and in short, looks pretty angelic. Let me tell you here and now, she bloody isn't. I had the misfortune of finding this out as I worked in the community library one afternoon. She ran towards me, arms outstretched, eyes twinkling with a beautiful smile spread across her face. "What a lovely little girl" I thought. As I happily welcomed her into my open arms, she proceeded to squeeze my nose as hard as her tiny fingers would allow (African children are freakishly strong by the way), and slap my face, whilst cackling away like some crazed banshee woman. I put her down and gave her my best, firmest "NO". So she bit me, picked up a book, and legged it out the door at top speed. You have to laugh really.
Jamesetta is eight years old, and seems very mature, focused and keen to learn. She comes into the library regularly, and when I'm not battling with vicious, insane toddlers I like to work with her. She chooses a book, usually a Disney story, and reads to me. As the hour goes by, her reading and pronounciation become gradually better and her voice more confident. Jamesetta has proved to me the value of the community library as an educational resource. These children are just as intelligent as any other - what they lack is the opportunity to learn. Books and guidance are like gold to them. Jamesetta wrote me a letter telling me she was her best friend, and I cannot tell you how rewarding that was. Ii'm going to buy her a reading book and write a little message in it before I go.
The camp manager I don't know his actual name, and really don't want to. My only experience of him so far has left me with the distinct impression that he is a man who has let the power he has go to his head. Not unusual in Africa, and just one of the reasons for the injustices the continent has suffered, and indeed, continues to suffer.
Me and Debbie made the mistake of walking past his office on our way back into the camp. Well actually, our first mistake was being white. We were sternly summoned by one of his cohorts into a large, air conditioned office complete with big-boss style leather chair, massive mahogany desk and chairs set out in a meeting style setting. Very intimidating. I already knew at this point that the camp manager had a habit of asking white people into his office and then demanding to know what they were doing there. He had accused a few volunteers of being paedophiles. He also threw an Australian guy out of camp (we met this guy at the beach resort and he told us his miserable tale) who was in the midst of some PHD research. Despite his stay being planned and agreed on for months he was still questioned and expelled from the camp. So, when this guy summoned us in I was pretty nervous.
He stared at us sternly for quite a long time before saying in his deepest, scariest voice "What are you doing here."
"We're voluntering with CBW."
Another very long, drawn out stare. "Write down your names."
So we did. He stared at the sheet of paper for what seemed like hours and then said "I will get back to you."
Fear had turned to confusion and a little bit of annoyance "I'm sorry Sir, I don't understand...get back to us about what?"
Another glare. "About whether or not you can stay on camp."
We're still waiting to find out was his verdict was. Ii guess he just wanted to show us and CBW who was boss and was throwing his (substantial) weight around. Other than that, I don't know why the camp manager has problems with volunteers and other whites on camp, I guess I'll find out over the coming weeks.
AB from The Brotherhood Anyone who tells you that a refugee camp is a hopeless place doesn't know what they are saying. Despite the squallor these people live in, the day to day struggles they face and the poverty they live in, they have found ways to pick themselves up. Many run business, little shacks that line the streets selling food, clothes, music, offering services. An example is The Brotherhood. The Brotherhood is a little bar with a TV, surrounded by benches for customers. They serve spaghetti, drinks and the best egg sandwhiches EVER. The guys who run it work tirelessly to keep the business going, and to keep the customers happy. Tonight, AB a 30 something Liberian was on his own. He was juggling everything - taking orders, cooking food, serving, taking payment. He is quiet and unassuming, and a seems to me to be a real grafter.
He is one of the reasons why in many ways, the Liberians are not to be pitied, but to be admired.
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andrea
non-member comment
i know a liberian man i admire...
i know a liberian man who i admire because he bravely spends his life giving others what he has... i can imagine what you say so well and i just dream with going to ghana to know that place where people who have nothing can smile each day...